


Do you hurt?

by lovesgeralt (lovesdaryl)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Implied Relationships, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesdaryl/pseuds/lovesgeralt
Summary: Geralt, Yennefer, Jaskier and Ciri are on their way to Skellige when they're attacked - and one of them has to stay behind to make sure the others get away.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in this fandom, I hope I got everything right.
> 
> Stay home, stay safe, stay healthy.

On the fifth day after leaving the town, Geralt stopped Roach in the middle of the day, on a straight stretch of the road leading through the forest. As he was leading the horse to a tree to tie her up, Yennefer and Jaskier likewise brought their mounts to a stop, and Yennefer held out one hand to help Ciri off Roach.

Taking off his cloak and laying it across his now empty saddle, Geralt, still without saying a word, drew one of his two swords - the steel one - from his pack and carefully slid it into the sheath strapped across his back.

They had been traveling toward the coast nonstop, barely stopping for sleep or food. Yennefer and Geralt had done their utmost to control the antagonism and the remembered pain of the past that kept creeping into their conversations every once in a while. Jaskier had, very consciously, as Geralt suspected, acted as a lubricant to reduce the tension between the sorceress and the witcher, with mixed results, and Geralt found that he appreciated Jaskier’s efforts all the more because of how much he had also hurt Jaskier - without any justification.

Yennefer dismounted and stepped up to Geralt, her lilac eyes full of mistrust.

“What are you doing, Geralt?”

“We’re being followed,” he stated, and both Jaskier and Ciri stepped in closer to hear what was being said. “You have to leave. Now.”

“I haven’t seen, heard, or sensed anyone,” Yennefer protested. “Are you sure?”

“Hm.”

The witcher opened one of his saddlebags and retrieved a pouch made of black cloth and closed with a leather drawstring. Pulling it open, he inspected its contents and then produced a glass vial filled with an oily black liquid. Jaskier took a step backward, his eyes widening - he had never, in all his time of traveling with the witcher, seen him take a potion before a fight.

He had watched this man single-handedly taking out whole groups of attackers without getting even a scratch himself, had him seen fighting off dozens of soldiers and courtiers in the hall of Queen Calanthe without getting injured. Hell, he’d watched him take out monsters without getting a scratch.

And without taking a potion to prepare for the fight.

He stared at the witcher, at his friend - at the amber eyes, the white hair, the black leather armor, and wondered if he would ever see him again once he left him here.

“We won’t leave,” he blurted, and instantly felt a disapproving look from Yennefer between his shoulder blades.

“Nonsense,” she overrode him, her tone of voice brooking no argument. “I’m assuming you’re not willing to use your lute as a weapon, so neither you nor Ciri can defend yourself. The two of us would have to look after you as well as ourselves and each other - and we  _ have  _ to keep her safe and get her on a boat and across to Skellige at all cost.” She cast a bitter glance at Geralt. “He’s right - much as I hate to admit it.” Walking up to Roach, she reached out one hand to remove the pack containing her and Ciri’s baggage, but the horse whinnied and stepped back from her.

“Roach, be nice.”

Geralt’s dark voice instantly calmed the horse, and Yennefer took down their pack and turned around to face the others.

“Where will we meet you, after?” she asked Geralt. “How and when will we meet? Will you make it in time to get to the coast with us, or will it be later?”

The witcher, with the unopened vial still in his hand, looked away briefly, jaw muscles working, and then managed to meet her eyes again.

“I’ll find you when this is over. Just go. Now.”

“But -”

Ciri was stepping forward, possibly in an attempt to hug Geralt and say goodbye, when an arrow whizzed out of the forest to thump into the ground next to Geralt’s right boot. Ciri jumped back with a terrified yelp, huddling in close to Yennefer who put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“How many?” the sorceress asked the witcher quietly.

“Eight that I know of. There might be more. Now go. Don’t look back.” Jaskier opened his mouth, but Geralt glared at him. “Now.” Jaskier closed his mouth again, a look of desperation on his face.

Meeting Ciri’s eyes, Geralt clenched his teeth.

“I’m sorry I’ve failed you. May Yennefer and Jaskier do a better job than me.”

Even as the girl tried to protest, the witcher turned toward Yennefer again.

“Get her to the coast on the shortest route. Do not come back for me, or wait anywhere for me to catch up with you. Move as quickly as possible, keep to yourselves, keep a low profile. Do whatever is necessary to get her out. She isn’t safe here anymore, not even in Brokilon, not after the doppler.” His golden eyes seemed to drill into Yennefer’s lilac ones, and although his face looked stiff and impassive, his voice and eyes were radiating the urgency of their mission to get Ciri to her grandfather’s family without anyone learning her identity.

Yennefer nodded wordlessly. Too much had been both said and left unsaid, and now all that was left was to watch him prepare for the fight and then leave him, leaving these things said, and unsaid, maybe forever.

Bearing the pain of them, maybe forever.

_ “He already has.” _

_ The wind ripping the words from her mouth as Geralt stared at her, agony plainly written on his face as he watched her turn and walk away from him, all those years ago. Her own heart crying out as she recalled their final night together in that tent nestled against the mountainside, and, for the first time ever, waking up next to him, instead of the empty space where he’d lain. _

_ “Before I met you, the days were calm and the nights were restless. Now, you’re important to me.” _

Too late.

No time.

And they might not get another chance.

Jaskier watched the sorceress and the witcher intently. He knew that, whatever it was between the two of them, it was different from what was between the witcher and himself.

And still … and still.

He couldn’t turn off his feelings, regardless of how much Geralt had hurt him by wishing him gone, by asking fate to remove Jaskier from his life as the only favor he would ask for.

He stood in silence, longing to reach out and touch Geralt, tell him to be careful, remind him he was still needed - and not just because Ciri was bound to him and he hadn’t failed her at all.

Geralt cracked the waxen seal over the cork on his vial with a fingernail, then pulled out the stopper and tossed back the mouthful of black liquid contained in it like a shot of spirits. His three companions didn’t wait around to see his amber eyes getting consumed by his pupils, even the sclera disappearing completely, or his skin going white, with black veins radiating from his eyes, visibly pulsing with his blood. The tales of elixir-induced witcher powers were enough to drive them away, even knowing the witcher who had just taken it.

The two adults strapped their packs to their own horses, Jaskier made sure his lute was safely strapped to his back, Yennefer lifted Ciri onto her mare and mounted behind her, and then they spurred on their horses, and left.

Geralt turned toward the forest and raised his sword.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our group of three making progress toward Skellige, and a conversation in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, there will be fight scenes with quite graphic descriptions - as graphic as the books, games, and show. If you are uncomfortable with reading these in detail, skip the paragraphs in italics at the beginning of the remaining chapters. "Missing" these will not affect the story as a whole, they just add detail.

_ Even as another arrow whizzed out from among the trees for him to bat harmlessly aside with his sword, one of his attackers gave up his cover and stormed out of the forest, coming right at him, sword raised high. Geralt, making use of the fact that his adversary’s left flank was completely open and unprotected, threw his sword, slicing all the way through the man, front to back, and then jumped forward, yanking the sword’s grip to the side and ripping the man’s ribcage open as he freed his weapon of the falling corpse. _

_ Whirling around on his left foot, he brought up his sword to bat away another projectile, this one a crossbow bolt, in midflight. His enhanced vision allowed him to spot a figure among the foliage whispering in amazement at this second demonstration of his witcher skills, just before the man cleared the edge of the woods to step onto the road, spear in hand. _

_ Geralt was on top of him with three swift steps, too fast for ordinary, unenhanced humans or elves to follow, and his sword came down on the man’s left shoulder, slicing downward and to the left, cutting him in half along a diagonal line down his torso. There was a gasp from amid the trees as the two halves of the spearman fell in opposite directions. _

_ Two down, at least six to go. _

.-.

Three days had passed since Geralt had stopped Roach on the road.

Three days of driving their exhausted horses toward Kerack, always on the lookout for attackers - or for Geralt. Always avoiding patrols, the military camps dotting the landscape, the smoking husks of villages that had been taken over by Nilfgaard.

Three days of Jaskier attempting to sing his “Toss a coin” song, but failing miserably, his voice cracking with sorrow and worry every single time, even before Yennefer could tell him to shut up.

Three days of Ciri crying every now and then, and asking in a tiny voice when Geralt would catch up, and if they shouldn’t go back to make sure he didn’t need help, suggesting that he might not be able to ride Roach after the fight against the group that had been lying in wait for them.

As night was falling, the town guards at the gates of Dorian let the bedraggled, rain-soaked group through with some reservations. Jaskier fully believed it was Ciri who did it, and that he and Yennefer on their own would have been turned back.

_ Wait until they hear about dopplers _ , he thought dully, recalling Ciri’s horrifying story about Mousesack, but he obviously didn’t care to enlighten the guards as they moved from the dirt path onto the cobbled main street leading them into the town and toward the inn with its walls of brick and its thatched roof.

Yennefer was hoping for a fire in the main room, and for an empty bed for Ciri to sleep in. She and Jaskier did have experience traveling the roads and sleeping rough. But it was quite a different challenge with a child that hadn’t seen thirteen yet, had lost her whole family and her home just weeks previously, and had been told by her dying grandmother that she had to find and stay with Geralt of Rivia who had sworn to protect her - while knowing that Geralt had almost certainly died three days earlier.

The sorceress was surprised that Jaskier bothered with knocking on the inn’s door before pushing it open, and in her fragile state she found the light and noise flooding her through the open door quite overwhelming. A bone deep weariness overcame her as she looked at the people inside, eating, drinking, some of them singing, or playing at dice. As far as she could see, there was no free table and she had no inclination whatsoever to interact with strangers, to pretend everything was fine, to hide her fear of Nilfgaardian soldiers and spies, and her fear for Geralt.

She glanced at Jaskier and saw the look she guessed her own face was showing, reflected back to her. Then the bard visibly braced himself and placed a hand on Ciri’s shoulder, gently guiding her into the stiflingly warm room in front of him.

“Let us have some nourishment at least before we find a place to lay our weary heads to rest,” he said with false cheer, his voice barely registering over the noise from the inn, and Yennefer succumbed.

.-.

Miraculously, the innkeep had still had room in the stable for their horses as well as two free bedchambers to choose from, so they had taken one of them and retreated from the main room downstairs once they had all had a bowl of the lukewarm, tasteless broth with a few lonely chunks of sinewy pork, potato, sliced carrots, and bits of leek swimming in it that the innkeeper had offered them for dinner. Along with the watered down wine of which they had shared one cup, it had at least served to warm them, if not quench their hunger - Roach, being the largest and strongest horse in their group, had been carrying most of their food supplies along with their baggage, and in their hurry to get away they had left them behind.

Now Jaskier was trying to sleep on the single chair in their room while Yennefer was holding the sleeping Ciri, the two of them lying on the narrow bed, one arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulders, the other pinned between Ciri’s head and the lumpy, straw-filled mattress.

They could both hear the mice scurrying along behind the floorboards, as well as each other’s uneven breathing, the slight movements that betrayed their worry and unease and inability to sleep despite their exhaustion. At long last, Jaskier whispered into the near complete darkness, “Would you like to talk?”

Yennefer gently extricated her right arm from under Ciri’s head - H _ e has a Child Surprise while I have  _ nothing _ , and he  _ dares  _ to lecture me about not subjecting a child to this life when half his waking hours are spent fighting monsters! _ \- and slid out from under the blanket they were sharing. Jaskier stood to give her the chair, but she shook her head and instead leaned against the table. The dim light from the window behind her turned her into a featureless shadow.

The bard sat down again.

“Why are you so angry with him?”

Jaskier’s voice was full of sorrow, and once again she couldn’t help but wonder about the bard’s own relationship with the witcher. He was clearly worried not just about Geralt’s physical safety but also his emotional state, and she was more than aware that her presence, and her ill-concealed irritation with Geralt, hadn’t contributed to that but rather aggravated the witcher.

“You were there.”

_ In Rinde. The djinn. _

_ That’s why we can’t escape each other. Why I feel this way inside. _

_ No. _

_ It’s not because of anything real, or true. You made a wish. It’s magic. _

_ It’s real, Yen. _

_ How could we ever know? Disregard for others’ freedom has become quite your trademark. _

_ I made that wish to save your  _ life _. _

Her heart ached, thinking back to that mountainside, to that day when she had, for the first time, woken up next to him; to looking into his golden eyes later that same day and seeing his fear for her, his love for her, knowing that she could not ever be certain that his feelings weren’t artificial, that they hadn’t been brought to life solely by his wish from the djinn which had both saved her life - and denied her dearest wish.

“But I don’t understand. He -”

Jaskier’s voice broke, and she knew. No more need to wonder.

“He loves you. He’s loved you ever since that first day in Rinde. Why do you hate him for saving your life?”

_ Do you hurt? I don’t mean physical pain. They say witchers can’t feel human emotion. _

_ They say whatever justifies despising our kind. _

Pretending to have a heart of stone, pretending for decades that he didn’t care so he could hide the pain caused by the hate and fear thrown his way by the strangers who paid him to do what he did, and then ostracized him for it.

“He saved it over doing something else that he knew I would have preferred.”

_ The sorceress will never regain her womb, and you, Geralt - even though you did not want to lose her, you will. _

_ He already has. _

_ The raw pain in his eyes because he did not, after all, have a heart of stone. _

Yennefer felt regret at how hard her own voice sounded as she answered Jaskier’s question. She was convinced, three days after leaving Geralt behind, that he had died that day to cover their escape, and she felt intensely ungrateful for complaining now about that first time he’d saved her life. And of course, Jaskier had been somewhere outside with the elven healer who had pointed Geralt to the mayor of Rinde’s house in the first place, so he hadn’t really been there and didn’t have all the information that he needed to understand her ire.

And with Geralt dead, she wanted him to understand that she didn’t hate the witcher without good cause.

“The djinn,” she said. “I still thought you were the one with the wishes, and that you had made the last wish, and I was attempting to become the djinn’s vessel in order to become more powerful. There is … something … that I want to accomplish, and I hoped the additional power would facilitate this. But then, after you had both left already … Geralt came back in.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened as he remembered trying to dissuade Geralt from going back into the house he himself had just escaped from. 

_ She saved your life, Jaskier. I can’t let her die. _

“The sorceress will never regain her womb,” he breathed, quoting Borch. “That’s what you were attempting!” The pity -  _ compassion _ , she resentfully corrected herself, Jaskier would not pity her - radiating from him was almost unbearable.

“Geralt thought that becoming the djinn’s vessel would make me lose control over my power and die, so he used his last wish … for me, instead of himself.”

“Himself?”

Her heart ached. She had witnessed firsthand the disdain and even hate with which witchers were often greeted. She had seen them turned away from inns and back into hail storms when they were looking for a bed to sleep in after slaying a monster for the village’s coin a mile away - with empty rooms just one floor up. She had seen them turn around and leave towns again under a shower of rotting vegetables and eggshells. And she had heard the story about the Butcher of Blaviken, about how Geralt had been chased out of town by a mob throwing stones at him in punishment for defending himself against a whole group of thugs attacking him, and their leader not surrendering after he had bested her and stood down, but attacking him again, to kill. He had been stoned for defending himself, for not dying. She had seen what it meant to be a witcher.

And she remembered, with painful intensity, one of the offers the djinn had made to Geralt that day in Rinde, through her.

_ You could choose not to be a witcher. _

He could have chosen a normal life. Life as a farmer, a blacksmith, a husband and father, over the life of a vilified loner destined to die with nobody to mourn him.

Yet he had chosen her.

He had chosen to save her life instead of undo the life-changing choice that had been made for him when he had been too young to fight it, the choice that had turned him into a feared and hated outcast from society.

She drew a shuddering breath and wiped away the tear running down her right cheek under the cover of darkness.

“The djinn offered him the choice to no longer be a witcher.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, glittering in the dim light that fell onto his face from the window behind Yennefer.

The bard had traveled with Geralt, had spent far more time with him than she had, had witnessed innkeeps refuse Geralt’s coin and turn him away when he’d been looking for a dry room and food, had seen healers deny him treatment for gaping wounds, had witnessed people looking at him with fear and answering him with voices full of hate, had watched them changing to the other side of the road to avoid passing by him, or making one of the many signs to ward off evil. 

The bard had been making a concerted effort over the past years to improve Geralt’s reputation with the people from “Butcher of Blaviken” to “friend of humanity” by turning his exploits into songs and making them popular - and Geralt along with them.

Jaskier, too, knew what it meant to be a witcher.

He knew what Geralt had turned down to save her.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Jaskier cleared his throat.

“But how …,” he began. “You know … you know how much everyone hates witchers, no matter how much they also need them when there’s a striga or a ghoul in the neighborhood.” He sounded breathless - he was still stunned by the magnitude of the djinn’s offer, by the difference it would have made to Geralt’s life, had he accepted it. “For him to save your life rather than -” He gestured meekly, unable to find words to express what he felt. 

The pain in her chest became too much to bear. 

_ Do you hurt? I don’t mean physical pain. _

Gasping for air, she pushed herself up from the table.

“I do not need you to lecture me, bard. I am quite capable of assessing the value of this offer, and the implications of him rejecting it, but thank you for your input.” She grabbed her cloak and fastened it around her neck. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to get to Skellige? Why, by boat, of course ...

_ The medallion around his neck twitched wildly, and then there was a howl of rage from behind him. When Geralt turned around he saw a giant with a double-bladed axe storming toward him, wielding the huge weapon as easily as if it was a spoon. In fact, as he kept running, his attacker started whirling it in a circle above his head, all while continuing to howl at the top of his voice. _

_ Bending his knees to steady himself, Geralt thrust out his left hand, casting Aard and throwing the man on his back, the axe still above his head and still howling - Geralt’s Sign had come so unexpectedly that he hadn’t realized yet that he’d been yanked off his feet by the telepathic blast. Geralt, his all-pupils eyes already spotting the next attacker in the darkness amid the trees, danced forward on the tips of his toes, quickly pushed his left hand down as he gently rested his palm on the axe’s handle, and was already jumping at the man rushing toward him with a sword and shield as the axe’s head was still falling to cleave into its owner’s chest, killing him instantly. _

_ Using his momentum, Geralt coiled down minutely on his second to last step and then jumped, coming down on his latest attacker from above, and angled his sword, aligning it with its tip pointing up his arm and past his elbow. Lifting his arm, he stabbed down viciously, avoiding the shield’s rim and the thrusting sword alike as his own sword slid into the robber’s body from above as if it were a sheath, embedding itself in him until the handguard struck the man’s clavicle. _

_ Yanking his sword upward to free it of the corpse as it crumpled to the ground, Geralt landed lightly on the balls of his feet and turned slightly to the right to meet the next man coming at him, the bolt in his crossbow aimed straight at his face. The weapon twanged as the bolt was sent flying, and Geralt again raised his sword. _

_ Four down, at least four to go. _

.-.

Ciri looked about herself with wide eyes. The three of them had just led their horses onto the pier of Kerack harbor and been assaulted by the salty tang of the sea, the cawing of the seagulls wheeling overhead, by instructions called out in many different tongues to the sailors working to bring in arriving ships or set sail on those about to leave.

This was the first time she was experiencing all this without being shielded from the usual bustle of a busy harbor by a cordon of guards protecting her against a closed off pier as she was boarding a royal ship, and she was overwhelmed by it.

Jaskier sought out the little pennants on each ship that indicated both its port of origin and its destination. An Skellige, one group among the Skellige Islands, was just about visible on the horizon, shrouded by mist or maybe a bank of low-hanging clouds, and surely there had to be at least one ship leaving for it every day, and all they had to do was find the next one and book passage for three people and two horses. The coin he’d earned singing in the inns along the way here should be just about enough, too.

Surely, that was how this was going to go.

Yet while there was one two master  _ from  _ Skellige headed for Pont Vanis, none of the four ships lined up along the pier was leaving  _ for  _ Skellige, and Jaskier’s heart sank. They had no idea who was on their trail - the robbers who had ambushed them five days ago, Nilfgaardian spies, Nilfgaardian soldiers even, and they didn’t know how far ahead they were of anyone following them. He just hoped they wouldn’t have to wait long for a ship.

.-.

“Tomorrow. The  _ Swallow _ . Coming up from Attre and Nastrog, freight and passengers. Leaving for An Skellige at noon - if she arrives on time tonight so they have enough time to unload and load her.”

The harbormaster noted Jaskier’s frustrated sigh and shrugged.

“War’s not helped with shipping,” he explained. “People buy less, and the ships have to avoid Nilfgaard’s patrols so they won’t get confiscated and the sailors drafted, have to go farther out to sea, so all the routes take longer now, and they’re more dangerous, too - more storms, and more ferocious as well. Lost a lot of ships since the war started.”

He took a drag from his smelly pipe, coughed, spat a wad of phlegm out of the open window next to him - they heard it land on the cobblestones with a wet splat - and then cocked his head while looking from Jaskier to Yennefer and back. He pointedly ignored Ciri - the teenage girl obviously had no say in this.

“The captain of the  _ Swallow _ is an old hand at his trade,” he said in an attempt to lift Jaskier’s spirits. “Knows how to read the sky and avoid patrols. I’m sure he’ll be on time tonight.”

“Can we book a passage with you in advance?” Yennefer, tired of listening to the harbormaster go on about trade and the weather, neither of which were subjects that concerned or interested her, decided to bring up the point that did both. “Two adults, a child, two horses. A cabin, if possible. No baggage beyond what we’re carrying.”

The harbormaster placed his pipe in a chipped dish with a small pile of ash in it, pulled a stack of leather bound books over from the end of his desk and inspected them. Jaskier noted that, while they were all the same size and looked very similar, there were variations in color to distinguish them by their binding without having to open them.

Selecting one of them, bound in the darkest shade of brown leather, the harbormaster opened it and thumbed through the pages until he arrived at one headed with the  _ Swallow’s _ upcoming arrival date and time, followed by two neat lists - presumably passengers and goods to be taken on board. He picked up his quill and tapped it against the rim of the inkwell to get rid of the excess ink.

“Names?”

“I’m Dalria of Aldersberg,” Yennefer replied promptly before Jaskier had even grasped what was expected of them. “He’s Radal the Bard, you might already have heard of him? He’s becoming quite famous farther inland. Imagine, we’ve shared a coach with a celebrity all the way from Dorian!”

Not wanting to appear to be an uncouth commoner, the harbormaster hastened to nod, adding a quick, “Oh, yes, some splendid songs!” as he penned Jaskier’s false name into his passenger bookings list. “And the girl?”

“My niece, Istra. I’ve had her staying with me for a few weeks, but she needs to return home now.” Yennefer gave the man her best sad face. “If only my sister hadn’t married to Skellige, I always miss them so.”

It was all Jaskier could do to keep his jaw from dropping. The ease with which Yennefer had given the man perfectly plausible names, including her own supposed home that was close enough to her real home to explain her accent, and a cover story to boot, stunned him.

He stood silent as Yennefer negotiated the price for their passage and, once successful, took out her purse and counted out the steel coins that would pay for it into the harbormaster’s palm.

With a look at her pack by her feet, Yennefer then asked for an inn where they could store their belongings and spend the night - “and, maybe, get a good meal as well? The inns along the road weren’t well stocked anymore, no fresh meats, no fish, all on account of the war. I’m hoping it’s better here?”

“Dunno if it’s better than inland, but the best place to stay here is The Stag And Hound. Clean rooms, from what I hear from the travellers who’ve stayed there, and decent food as well. Take the second turn left back into town, and the third right after that. Tell Miss Granella that Eyryk sent you - that would be me.”

Thinking to herself that Eyryk probably received a commission for every traveller or group that he sent to the Stag and Hound, Yennefer reined in her disdain and instead nodded at the harbormaster with what she hoped was a benevolent smile. It would only be for one night, after all.

“Thank you, Master Eyryk, I will be sure to mention you. Until tomorrow then.”

Nodding at the man, she picked up her bundle and, with Jaskier following suit, turned around with very precise movements. One after the other, they filed out of the harbormaster’s office.

_ Just one more day to catch up to us - if he’s even alive, and not wounded too badly to follow. Just until noon tomorrow to catch up, and find us. _

.-.

Even in such a busy town as the port of Kerack, looking out the window became boring after little more than an hour, and Ciri thought back rather scornfully to Yennefer’s warning about venturing out of their room on her own while she and Jaskier were out trying to find traces of Geralt, or of Nilfgaard or the Brotherhood tracking them here.

It was a sunny day. The people going about their daily lives on the cobblestoned street below her seemed to be feeling perfectly safe, and there were no dark figures lurking about in any corners who might have qualified as Nilfgaard spies or soldiers that would recognize Ciri’s light blond hair and striking green eyes. Everyone she could see from her vantage point was living a normal life and doing ordinary, normal life things.

There might even be children playing knucklebones somewhere - she just needed to find them.

With an ache she realized just how long it had been since she had done normal things that normal children did on normal days. Instead of playing with friends her own age, she had been running from thugs, from soldiers trying to kill her, from a doppler disguised as a lifelong friend whom the doppler had murdered to take on his form so he could deceive her.

The man she had been told by her dying grandmother would protect her because he had sworn to do so had died six days earlier doing just that - protect her from a whole group lying in ambush and waiting to murder all of them.

These were not the issues that a child her age should have to worry about. These were issues that weighed heavily even on the adults who were now protecting her and taking care of her, with Geralt of Rivia dead.

She wanted to forget about all the dead people she had left behind, all the people who had died protecting her - her grandmother, and Eist, and Lazlo, and Mousesack, and Geralt. She wanted to forget her grief for all of them for the first time in weeks.

She wanted to be a child once more, if only for an hour, before boarding the ship at noon that was going to take her across the sea to Skellige, and back to her role as a princess of Cintra.

Whirling away from the window, she picked up her bright blue cloak, smudged and grimy and frayed after weeks on the road, and threw it around her shoulders, deciding against pulling up her cowl to hide her distinctive hair. They hadn’t seen anyone who might be following them in days, not since leaving Geralt behind. Surely, nobody would recognize Princess Cirilla of Cintra in a dirty, travel worn waif, days away from her home, even if that waif had blond hair and a blue cloak. 

All the times she had come here before when traveling to visit her great-grandparents and her aunt and uncle, she had been accompanied by her grandparents and a huge retinue that had all but shielded her from the people of Kerack - not to mention that the harbor had always been cordoned off for the safety of the royal party, and they had always traveled on their own ship, and she had never looked at, nor talked to anyone in the town.

No, nobody would recognize her, and she would have fun for an hour, and be back in time to leave for the harbor with Yen and Jaskier.

.-.

When Yennefer placed one hand on the inn’s door to push it open, she hesitated, frowned, and looked about herself, her eyes scanning the street, the merchants’ carts and people passing by them. Then she removed her hand from the door and her lips moved soundlessly as she whispered a spell.

Jaskier’s eyes widened as he observed the dark, scratched wood of the door shimmering with a golden haze just below where Yen’s hand had touched it. He could feel the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end.

Real magic.

Then he recalled Geralt dropping into a half crouch and lifting his right hand to cast Aard to ward off the djinn in Rinde after they had accidentally set it free, and then again to interrupt the spell woven by Pavetta after Queen Calanthe had tried to stab Duni in her hall - real magic, both times - and felt tears pricking his eyes. He still couldn’t think of Geralt without verging on tears, and somehow, the situation was never right for just letting them flow, and openly mourning him.

“What does this tell you?” he asked Yennefer, glancing around to make sure that nobody had noticed her casting the spell, and its effect. Sorcerers, like witchers, although not openly despised, were still not universally liked.

“I don’t think we’ll find Ciri in our room,” Yennefer said softly as she opened the door. 

Bypassing the main guest room, where half a dozen patrons were already sitting at the tables nursing tankards of ale despite the early hour, they headed for the narrow staircase and made their way up to the second floor and the door of their room. Yennefer again placed one hand against the wood and repeated her spell - and again, the wood shimmered where Ciri had touched it in passing.

With a sigh, the sorceress opened the door to their sunlit, empty room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out and about in Kerack, playing, fleeing, and searching.

_ Until now, they had been making this easy for him by coming at him individually, allowing him to pick them off one by one. Now, however, two were emerging from the woods simultaneously - one from behind him, one right in front of him, and they weren’t giving him time to deal with them individually any longer, but attacked at the same time. Geralt felt a sword slice into his left side from behind even as he batted aside the crossbow bolt rushing toward him. _

_ With a grunt of pain, he whirled his sword around so its tip pointed backward, blood spraying out like a fan from its tip, and then viciously pulled his arm straight back - and felt his weapon slice into the man preparing to run his own sword into Geralt a second time. His heightened witcher senses allowed him to feel the man’s hot breath on the right side of his neck, so he yanked his sword to the left, eviscerating the man by slicing open his belly all the way across his front. _

_ With the crossbowman still facing him, he let go of his own sword which was still pointed toward his back and instead sank down into a crouch, grabbed the sword of the man collapsing behind him, and even as the man in front of him loosed another bolt, he brought the sword forward to stab it upward and through the man’s lower jaw and up into his head - but as he did so, the bolt struck him in the left shoulder, hot pain radiating from the wound and blood running down his chest and back as he retrieved his own sword again. _

_ Six down, at least two to go. _

.-.

Ciri had no idea how this had happened. How she had ended up afraid, and running away from Nilfgaardian soldiers again, when she hadn’t seen one in days.

At first, everything had gone splendidly, and just as planned. After leaving the inn, it had taken her only a few minutes to spot two children running down the quay and then taking a turn away from the sea and into the heart of the town, and most decidedly looking as if they knew where they were going, and why. So she had picked up the hem of her riding skirt and followed them.

Since she had been doing quite a bit of running over the past few weeks while doing her best to evade and avoid and run away from soldiers and bandits and monsters, she’d had no trouble keeping up, and at the end of the race, the two children had met three others and continued at a more leisurely pace until they had all reached a spot next to an old, dried up stone fountain in a secluded courtyard. There, they had hunkered down, spread a smooth piece of cured leather, and started a game of knucklebones, just as she’d hoped.

Suddenly shy, and realizing that she was a stranger and a nobody in this town and not the Princess Cirilla - which, as Anton had told her, had been the only reason they’d always let her win back home -, she had hesitated at first, but had finally made up her mind and approached the group. The closer of the two girls among the five children had looked up at her, squinting against the sun.

“Who’re you?”

Sticking with the name she had first adopted for Brokilon Forest, Ciri said, “I’m Fiona. Can I play with you?”

Since six players were too many, they had formed three teams of two and had gotten to the second round by the time a black-clad Nilfgaardian soldier had peered around the corner of the alley leading from the street outside into the courtyard. Noting movement from the corner of her eye, Ciri had raised her head, only for her eyes to meet those of the soldier.

She had been helpless to suppress her instant reaction. Flinching back from the bones she had just thrown onto the leather playing field, she had scrabbled to her feet and backed away as the soldier approached, drawing his sword. It was at this point that the other children realized something was amiss - just in time to scramble out of the soldier’s way as he jumped into their midst, one hand reaching out for Ciri, the bones of their game splintering and crumbling under his feet.

She’d screamed and turned to run behind the fountain, the soldier on her heels, and then from the fountain to the alley through which they had all come. Lifting her riding skirt, she had run and run, dodging the two other soldiers waiting for their comrade where the alley met the street, skirting a heavily laden trader’s cart, ducking into the next alley to get out of sight.

Now she was hiding behind a stack of wine barrels in an inn’s courtyard - not the Stag and Hound, unfortunately - and realized that she had completely lost both her way and any sense of what time it was. Had noon come and gone already while she had been playing and then running away from the soldiers? If it had, had Yennefer and Jaskier managed to keep the  _ Swallow  _ from leaving, or would they have to wait another day now, with the soldiers chasing her probably searching all the inns, now that they knew that at least Ciri was in Kerack?

How bad of a mess had she gotten them all into with her reckless desire to play knucklebones like a normal child, when she definitely wasn’t a normal child but a princess of Cintra who was hiding from the enemies of her country?

A child who almost half a dozen people had died to protect just over the last few weeks?

Her chest tightened as tears welled up in her eyes.

Eist, asking, “Knucklebones? Did you win?” with a smile. And her grandmother telling her, with her hand pressed against her blood soaked cloak covering the wound in her abdomen, that Eist had died in the battle against Nilfgaard.

Mousesack, whispering, “I made a promise to your grandmother. Allow me to keep it,” as the black rider with the bird feathers on his helmet was charging toward them on his black horse, his sword out. And the doppler telling her, on the icy, snow covered plain stretching before Brokilon, that he had killed Mousesack to take on his form.

Lazlo going limp in the saddle behind her as the massive arrow loosed by the black rider pierced his throat from behind, and pulling her off their horse with him as he fell.

Her grandmother, Calanthe, panting with her last remaining strength for her to “Find Geralt of Rivia. He is your destiny. The world depends on it.” She could only hope that her grandmother had taken her fate in her own hands before the soldiers of Nilfgaard had gotten theirs on her to cause her further pain and prolong her death.

And, lastly, Geralt, sending them away, telling them not to wait for him, telling them, “Don’t look back.” She vividly remembered running into his arms in the woods as he had limped toward her, remembered his strong arms enfolding her, remembered the world being safe again despite the smell of blood and sweat and sickness enveloping her, with Geralt, as she had learned later that day, still recovering from a ghoul bite.

At least, she thought, she had been spared having to see all these people die with her own eyes - just knowing that they had died for her was painful enough.

And now it had all been in vain because she had wanted to have fun instead of ensuring that these sacrifices had not been for nothing.

Maybe, she thought, at least Yennefer and Jaskier would make it out of this mess alive. Maybe Eist’s family, whom she had loved as her her own all her life and who had loved her as as one of theirs in return from the day she had been born, would at least learn what had become of them, and that there had been people, good people, brave people, willing to lay down their lives to protect her.

The cart that she had used for cover in her escape slowly rolled past the passageway to the court in which she was cowering, and then the three soldiers in their black armor trotted past it as well, without so much as glancing her way. Now if only she knew which way to turn to find her way back to the Stag and Hound, or even to the harbor - by now, the  _ Swallow _ should be on the verge of departing. It couldn’t be too long until noon.

But she was a girl of thirteen, alone, unarmed, hunted by soldiers in the army that had sacked her city and killed her grandparents and everyone she had ever known, in a foreign town, and she didn’t dare stir from her hiding place until much later.

.-.

Just as Yennefer was about to cast her spell once more, Jaskier gently rested his fingertips upon her wrist to stop her.

“We’ve been looking for over an hour,” he whispered, then amended, “ _ you’ve _ been looking. You say that she couldn’t have left too long before we returned to our room, yet we haven’t found a trace of her.” Undeterred by the glare she cast at him over her shoulder, he concluded, “She’s gone. We’ve lost her.”

Jaskier’s heart all but stopped when all the tension left Yen’s body at this, and she burst into tears right there, in the street, without warning.

“He died for her.”

Yennefer’s words were barely intelligible - she was trying not to talk too loudly so they wouldn’t be overheard, yet her loud sobs were both attracting attention and making it hard to understand what she was saying.

“Geralt died so we would get here, so she could get to safety - and we, dumb fucks that we are, lose her at the last moment. We never deserved him. None of us did.”

This statement, shocking in its openness, in revealing both her love for Geralt and her guilt for pushing him back in retaliation for saving her life, hit too close to home. Jaskier felt his chest constricting with grief as he turned to face Yen.

“We don’t know what happened,” he replied, trying to console her. “She could be back in our room by now. Or she could have explored the town and then gone directly to the harbor. Maybe we should look for her there. It’s not too late.”

“We haven’t found a single trace of her, not a footstep, not one touch of her hand to a wall or a door. We have no idea where she could have gone, what she could have done, who she could have met - or who could have seen her. There are soldiers everywhere - did you see a single one yesterday?”

“I did not,” Jaskier admitted, “but then we didn’t do very much yesterday after getting our room, did we? And she doesn’t much look like … who she is.”

Yennefer was grateful that he at least didn’t blurt out that they were looking for the heir to the throne of Cintra, but she still wished he would talk more softly.

“I just wish -”

She suppressed a sob, drew a deep breath and wiped her face dry with both hands, then made another attempt at speaking.

“I just wish he had made it. He might have … ways to find her that I don’t, with her being his Child Surprise, and with his … witcher senses.”

Jaskier remembered seeing Geralt’s amulet moving and pulling on its necklace and realized that Yennefer had a point there - the amulet and his enhanced senses of smell and vision would very probably have helped Geralt find Ciri where ordinary human senses and even the Brotherhood’s magic could not.

But …

“It is what it is,” he whispered, that hot steel band still around his aching chest, his love for Geralt tearing him apart, now that he had lost him and would never be able to confess to him what he was feeling. “What’s left now is to do what he would want us to - find her, and take her to safety.”

Very tentatively, he put his arms around Yen, and to his surprise she leaned into him, accepting his embrace and what consolation he could give her, heartbroken as he was himself.

After a few moments’ quiet rest, with the townfolk moving around them like water streaming around a boulder in a riverbed, they continued their search, and turned toward the harbor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And now the conclusion."

_ Even as another man, this one wearing a battered helmet and carrying a halberd, the most unwieldy weapon that Geralt could imagine in a fight one on one, rushed him from the woods, coming at him over the body of the crossbowman he had just killed, Geralt could hear the frantic footfalls of two people running deeper into the woods behind this latest one - so at least two were not going to attack him but try to escape instead. _

_ Yet he couldn’t allow himself to feel relief - he’d heard at least one more person hiding in the woods behind him, and even once he’d dealt with him, he couldn’t let his guard down for good. He still had no idea how many attackers had been lying in wait for them originally, and now he was injured and bleeding from two wounds. As he continued losing blood, he would grow weaker, and become less able to defend himself even while he was still under the influence of the witcher elixir. _

_ A cold sweat broke on his forehead, he felt his heart racing in an effort to compensate for the blood he had lost, and he noticed the shadows in the forest to both sides of the road growing darker - the elixir was wearing off, a process probably speeded up by his injuries. He set his feet farther apart in an effort to steady himself against the dizziness that he knew was coming soon - both from blood loss, and from the elixir wearing off. The aftereffects of moving faster than even the very best reflex times of regular humans would affect him even more while injured. _

_ Leaning forward to improve his balance, he raised his left hand, now covered in the blood running down from his shoulder, and cast Yrden. In response, a circle of small, purple flames flickered up from the packed earth of the road, and he took a step back to stay out of reach of the halberd. As the man coming toward him stepped into the circle, Geralt took a deep breath - there was always the chance of an opponent noticing the flames and avoiding the circle. After all, his amulet announced the fact that he was a witcher, and people attacking him, especially in large groups, would always do well to expect him to use Signs to defend himself. _

_ The man with the halberd now approached the side of the Yrden circle facing Geralt, and started swearing when he found himself unable to leave it and keep approaching the witcher. Straining forward, he thrust out his weapon in a futile effort to reach the witcher with it, yelling in rage and frustration in a language Geralt didn’t understand. _

_ Taking another step backward, wavering slightly on his feet as blood kept streaming down from his shoulder and the sword wound in his left side, Geralt again raised his bloody left hand to cast a Sign. He allowed himself a measure of relief when he heard the rustling of yet more people behind him fleeing the site of their intended ambush as they watched another of their number going down by the witcher’s hand even after two of their own had managed to wound him. _

_ Seeing someone die after a witcher had cast Igni was nothing to inspire confidence in his enemies. _

_ Geralt himself watched the circle of purple flames die down as the burning man inside it finally stopped screaming and his writhing turned into the mindless twitching of his burned arms and legs. What remained of his throat and mouth was no longer capable of forming sound or words. Soon, what remained of the body was no longer able to support the flames feeding on it, and they died down as well. _

_ Geralt, his amulet now lying still against his chest once more, fell to his knees, trying and failing to support himself with his sword. He heard the soft whinnying of Roach, as if in farewell, and tried to answer her, but as the world grew dark around him and his sword slipped out of his limp hand and he fell forward, the last thing he heard was the sound of hooves approaching. _

_ She wasn’t saying farewell, he realized, but greeting another horse. _

_ Maybe, Geralt thought, his cheek resting on the cold ground, whoever was coming would take her in, and take good care of her. _

_ Maybe whoever was coming would even bury his body, along with those of the men he had slain here to keep Ciri safe. _

_ His eyes closed. _

.-.

She remembered the ships that had been anchored along the quay the day before, and she was certain that the third one out from the harbormaster’s office had not been here when Yen had booked their passage for today. All she had to do was wait until the group of soldiers patrolling the quay was turning their backs so she could climb down the steps on the seaward side of the quay, down to the ledge slightly above the water that led all the way down to the end, probably to allow the sailors access to their ships’ stern from a solid surface instead of a boat bobbing on the waves.

She’d be able to make her way to the third ship in line, unseen by anyone who wasn’t accidentally standing or walking with an open view of the seaward side of the quay, and once she had reached it, all she’d have left to do was make sure that it was the  _ Swallow _ , climb up onto the quay under cover of the ramp, sneak up said ramp onto the ship, and ask the captain to convince himself at the harbormaster’s office that passage had already been booked and paid for her the day before.

Her heart was in her throat as she thought over her plan once again. It seemed so straightforward, and yet …

What if the third one down wasn’t the  _ Swallow _ ? What if she wouldn’t get a chance to sneak onto the ramp where she would be hidden again? What if the captain refused to check that her passage had been booked and paid for? 

Enough. She was never going to make it if she didn’t even try.

Ciri inched forward, just enough so she could peer up and down the street to check for soldiers to her left and right - and spotted, not just soldiers to her left, but also Yennefer and Jaskier to her right, carrying their packs on their backs and leading their horses along.

However, the five soldiers checking every alley and behind every door were closer.

Her decision was made for her when something heavy landed on her shoulder and a voice growled, “And what have we here? A pretty young lass?” The stench of old sweat and beer enveloped her, and she felt wiry hair touching her the back of her neck.

Ciri yelped, jumped up, pulled away from the dirty hand holding onto her, and ran out into the street and toward Yennefer and Jaskier without even glancing back.

At once, she heard several of the soldiers calling out behind her, heard their footfalls speeding up as they started running. Jaskier’s mouth fell open in surprise, Yen had dropped her bag and raised her hand to cast a spell at the soldiers, and then a bell started tolling.

Twelve noon.

Curses from behind her told Ciri that whatever spell Yennefer had cast was working. Both Ciri herself and Yen and Jaskier were now moving in a wide arc aiming at the pier, all three of them running, the horses cantering along on their bridles nervously, Yen dragging along her pack by one strap only. Far ahead, Ciri could see sailors coming down the ramp of the third ship down the pier - “It  _ is  _ the  _ Swallow _ , then!” - to untie her from her moorings. Jaskier started yelling and waving one arm to get them to wait before raising the ramp. Yennefer was once more casting a spell, and more yelps of pain from behind them proved again that it was working.

They ran.

One of the sailors noticed them approaching, and Jaskier, all out of breath at this point, croaked again that they were passengers with a valid booking. There could be no doubt at all that, what with the commotion caused by Yen’s spells, the soldiers’ curses, and the general level of noise in the harbor, there was no way any of the sailors would understand what Jaskier was saying.

They kept running.

The sailor who had noticed them, the last one still standing on the pier by now, turned back to his ropes, untying the knot around the mooring he was standing next to and winding the rope around his hand and elbow without paying any more attention to them. Jaskier croaked again.

With a curse, Yennefer pulled her horse to a stop and then mounted it inelegantly. Driving it to a canter the moment she was in the saddle, she rode up to the  _ Swallow  _ as fast as she dared on the cobblestones - she didn’t want to risk injuring her horse even in this emergency; if they didn’t make it to the ship in time they would need their horses to get away and out of town.

The sailor looked up and stared at the horse coming at him, bearing the wild-eyed sorceress, and backed away, but Yennefer waved one hand at him - dropping her pack for good in the process - to cast a calming spell on him. Once she reached him, she brutally reined her horse to a stop and leaned down.

“We booked and paid for our passage to Skellige yesterday as I’m sure Master Eyryk will have told you - we’re just a bit late,” she panted. “Please let us board first before you pull up the ramp.” Sliding off her horse, she looked back to make sure that Jaskier was picking up the bag she had dropped on the pier and that Ciri was still keeping up.

The five soldiers who had been following Ciri were getting up again after she had thrown them over with an air blast spell, so she stretched out her right hand, curled her fingers as if to grasp something, and then twisted her hand clockwise. The five soldiers sank to their knees, moaning.

Panting, Jaskier reached Yen, the sailor she had subdued, and the ramp, and started leading his horse up, very careful to make sure the case with his lute in it didn’t bang into anything. 

Next, Ciri reached the ship, whispered a breathless, “Thank you!” in the direction of the sailor, and started up the ramp and across the short gap separating the ship and the pier.

Finally, Yennefer nodded at the sailor to untie the  _ Swallow _ . “Thank you for waiting. I will make sure to mention this to your captain.”

The soldiers, who were just picking themselves up again for the third time, could only stare after the departing ship in frustrated rage as Yennefer waved back at them mockingly.

.-.

“Oh, thank the gods, you’re safe!”

Eist’s sister in law, the Queen Stera, folded her arms around Ciri, tears of relief running down her face. The King looked as if he was making an effort to hold it together, but of course the news of Cintra getting leveled to the ground by Nilfgaard had made its way here, and they had believed their brother and brother in law, his wife, and their niece, dead. Seeing Ciri in front of them, alive and well, seemed like a miracle to both of them.

Ciri, dirty, tired, still seasick from their voyage to An Skellige, was clinging to her aunt, tears running down her face. The contrast between the audience chamber and her life on the road over the past weeks could not have been any more stark. Standing here, protected again by walls, soldiers, and her friends and family to keep her safe, was more than she could take. She kept trembling while trying to ward off her mental images of those who had died to get her here.

“I so badly wanted to believe that refugee who arrived two days ago, but I just -”

“Refugee?”

Yennefer, whose reputation as the former sorceress at the court of Aedirn had brought them this far, with Ciri impossible to recognize for the guards in torn clothes and covered by a layer of dirt, frowned, staring at the Queen. She had seen the ruins of Cintra and couldn’t believe that any ordinary human had managed to get out of the burning city and escape Nilfgaard’s soldiers, who had been scouring the country for survivors.

“He was brought here by a merchant who claimed that the man had information on our niece. He was wounded, and barely conscious, but he insisted on talking to us before getting treatment by the priestesses of Melitele. He was brought to the audience chamber, and asked at once if Ciri had arrived here yet. When we told him that, as far as we knew, everyone in Cintra had died, he told us that Ciri had escaped the sacking of the city and was alive and on her way here. That he’d been with her for a part of her journey, and we should expect her.”

Jaskier, too, found this suspicious. Ciri had told them that an elven boy, Dara, had been with her for a few days for her journey to Brokilon and her stay there, but he hadn’t gathered that Dara had been a resident of Cintra. And Ciri herself hadn’t planned on coming to Skellige until after she had left Brokilon, so how would Dara have known about this?

“Are you sure he’s a survivor from Cintra and not a spy from Nilfgaard who was sent here in case Ciri had made it out alive? You know - to finish what they started?”

The King stared at Jaskier.

“You have quite the talent for intrigue, young man,” he stated. “For one thing, he is gravely wounded - would they really have done that to one of their own, intentionally, and then sent him here on a cart, with a horse tied to it, not knowing if he’d survive the journey, or if we would take him in and give him treatment, rather than let him die and just take the horse?”

Jaskier frowned. Put like this, it did sound rather … improbable. 

“Would you rest more easily tonight if we allowed you to see this man? He’s being treated at the temple, under guard.”

Jaskier looked at Yennefer.

“Would we even be able to identify a spy from Nilfgaard?” he asked. “Do you have a spell ready that could force him to tell the truth about who he is, and what his objective is?”

“I would need to give him one of my potions,” Yennefer said with a shrug, “but yes, I could force him to speak truly. We should at least try to find out who he is, and if he’s a danger to Ciri.”

.-.

There were two Skellige guardsmen in full armor outside the door of the sickroom, and when the Sister opened the door, two more, also in full armor, were the first thing Jaskier saw inside the room as well. A fire was burning in the large fireplace although it had been a warm day. Despite the open window, the air in the room was stifling, and smelled of medicinal components, fever, sweat, and blood.

“We cannot place his accent, from what little he has said,” the Sister said, holding the door for Yennefer and Jaskier to step through before following them. “He’s been either asleep or unconscious most of the time. Whenever he wakes up, he asks for Princess Cirilla, and whether she has arrived yet. I would not associate that with him … wishing her harm. But obviously, I haven’t been trained for determining whether he’s lying, but rather for keeping him alive.”

“It was that bad?” Jaskier asked. “And will he? You know, survive?”

The Sister shrugged. “His fever has been going down slowly today, and the infection that had been spreading from the wound in his thigh is receding. Clotting in the puncture wound and the slice on his side has finally set in.” She picked up a basket of medical supplies standing ready next to the door and approached the guards with the basket in her arms.

“The Queen has authorized Yennefer of Vengerberg, the former Sorceress to Aedirn, and Jaskier the Bard to talk to this man in order to find out if he speaks truth about who he is, so we may better assess whether or not he is a danger to court. Also, I would like to change his bandages and see if he needs more medicine. Please step back and make room for us. I’m sure he’s not a danger yet, given his condition.”

With a respectful nod to the Sister, both men took two steps backward, making room at the bed, and Jaskier and Yennefer followed the Sister who was now stepping up to the bed and setting her supplies on the nightstand, next to a wooden cup and a flickering candle.

The sorceress and the bard waited patiently as the Sister leaned over her patient to check his temperature and then turn down the covers for better access to his wounds. Despite the heat in the room, they heard his teeth chattering. Slowly and carefully, the Sister started removing the bandages and a herbal compress and placed them next to her basket to be washed and replaced.

Yennefer heard a low rasping sound, and the Sister said, “Water? You want water? Let me get some for you, just a moment. The cup is empty, I’ll have to -”

She stepped back from the bed and turned to leave the room, cup in hand, allowing Yennefer and Jaskier their first look at her patient, and they both gasped.

Geralt was even paler than usual. There was a messy narrow stab wound just under his left collarbone that was beginning to clot and crust over, he was still wearing a blood-spotted bandage around his waist, and even days after the fight he was still covered in dark bruises, one of them suggesting several broken ribs, as if he had taken a fall. 

His white hair was untied and spread across his pillow in knotted tangles that were as dirty and sweaty his face. His left leg, where he’d been bitten by a ghoul two days before finding Ciri in the woods near Brokilon, had been elevated under the blankets to help him fight off the infection that he’d nearly overcome by the time they had all set out for Skellige, but that had apparently, from what the Sister had said, gained ground again because of his fresh injuries.

His breathing was shallow, his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were closed.

“Geralt,” Yennefer breathed, and felt her eyes stinging with tears. Until this moment, she hadn’t allowed herself to fully feel the pain that losing him had caused her, and now her fear and sorrow were all hitting at once. She felt as if her chest were being crushed.

He opened his eyes, bloodshot and shining with fever, and glowing golden in the light of the fire.

“Yen,” he whispered, and it clearly took all his strength - he had to close his eyes again, and his breathing got faster. Hearing him say his name for her after she had believed for days that she was never going to hear it again made her heart stop for a moment. 

Geralt forced his eyes open once more and tried to push himself up on his elbows, but the second he moved his left arm, his eyes all but rolled up in their sockets and he groaned in pain. “Fuck, what -” With his right hand he briefly touched his chest just under the wound, and then looked at the dried blood that had flaked off and was now staining his fingertips.

With another groan, he looked up at Yennefer again and his brow furrowed. “Have you brought Ciri? Is she safe?” And then, his eyes rapidly roving up and down her body, inspecting her, “Are you alright?”

Yennefer felt her tears spilling over as she sank down beside the bed and covered his right hand with her own, hesitantly, afraid that she might cause him additional pain - but he visibly relaxed at her touch. A small, detached part of her was slightly disappointed at the lack of joy she was feeling, but for now, she was overwhelmed with relief and awe at finding him here, alive.

Maybe, hopefully, joy would come later.

“We’re all fine - we were grieving for you, but we’ll be alright now, with you here. How -?” 

“Hm.” He blinked slowly, almost carefully. “Later.” And, very softly, he added, “Yen.”

A hint of the joy she might get to feel once she had absorbed the fact of him being alive flashed through her, silencing her, there and gone again within less than a heartbeat, but overwhelming in its purity. For that brief moment, it filled her completely, and she felt she might burst from it.

_ He already has. _

How could she have said this, when seeing him, hearing his voice, touching his skin, filled her with … this? When she had seen, even as she’d said it, that he meant what he said on that mountain, long ago?

_ No. _

_ It’s real, Yen. _

“And Jaskier?”

While Geralt’s voice was still weak, he nevertheless managed to speak loudly enough for the bard to hear him, and the younger man stepped up behind Yennefer, careful not to force her to move out of his way. From many small things that Geralt had said and done in the years they had known each other, he knew that the witcher cared deeply about him - but not in the same way he cared about Yennefer.

_ Fix it, and I’ll pay you. Whatever the price. _

_ Jaskier. You’re alright. _

_ I don’t need anyone. And the last thing I’d want is for someone to need me. _

Now and forever, he would be grateful to know the Geralt of Rivia  _ behind  _ the songs and stories, and be one of the few people he cared about.

Jaskier’s eyes shone with joy and gratitude as he sat down on the edge of Geralt’s bed, next to Yen’s hand covering the witcher’s. He could feel his … friend’s feverish heat radiating from him, but the Sister of Melitele had said the fever was going down, so he tried his best not to worry.

“Against all odds, we’ve all arrived here safely to find you alive and healing when we’d thought you dead for a full week. In my book, that’s most definitely an improvement. I don’t know about you two, but I’m great.”

Another contented, “Hm,” was his answer.

The witcher turned his hand under Yen’s so his palm was up, and entwined his fingers with hers. He took a deep breath, and although it clearly hurt him, he still smiled as he closed his eyes once more.

“This is … good,” he mumbled, then thought of something and looked up at Jaskier once more, briefly, his golden eyes shining. “Please take care of Roach until I’m better - she’ll prefer someone she knows. And tell Ciri … tell her we’re all her family.” His breathing grew deeper as his head sank to the side and his eyes closed - but even in his sleep, he didn’t let go of Yennefer’s hand, and he didn’t stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading - and stay home, stay safe, stay healthy!


End file.
